


Reeds of Gold

by kishun



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Jack is Mad and George Needs to Fix His Mistake, M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:37:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23091793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishun/pseuds/kishun
Summary: Tired limbs, showers of gold and earth bound kisses are what keep George grounded.
Relationships: Jack Aitken/George Russell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Reeds of Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gertika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gertika/gifts).

> Hello, folks. This fic is entirely the result of Gertika completely and utterly changing my perspective of Jack and George by introducing me to this ship. Hilariously, I immediately started writing about them and several drafts later, here we are. As always, I hope it's suffices.
> 
> This is fiction. Please keep this story on Ao3.

Coming home is the best part of George’s day. Even if he’s returning from training, a race, or a few days at the factory. The house is not too secluded, though the lake and green-leaved trees are the first thing one would see. Green grass, wildflowers and stone path leading the way to the front door. In its simplicity, a traditional two-story house, made of grey stone and wide windows. 

Summer was always beautiful here. He opened the front door and decided he was just glad to be home. After bringing his bags up to the bedroom, he ran back down to the kitchen. Every light in the house was off; reeds of gold shining through the large windows. Natural light painting the large rooms of the house in yellow radiance.

The light bounced off the glossy brown granite countertop, off the kettle and onto the hardwood floors. Wooden frames on the wall holding several pictures of far away places, a particular spring wedding and family. George remembered when he’d first visited Hendrie House, he’d fallen in love with the place faster than he expected. It felt like a space that he could call home. And he had. Now, four years later he was still as in love with the house as he was when he first walked in.

The kettle made it’s usual noise, sounding to George that the water was ready. The HQ visit had not been long, only _ nine _ days spent wasting away in Brackley. He’d been summoned for meetings, one after the other, with all sorts of people. The first one with his engineer and head mechanic; one with his management team, press officer and one very tired looking logistician; and one with his parents whom he had to visit. 

The plain white walls and dull rooms of the Mercedes headquarters could not compare to here. The fridge was half stocked, filled with pre-packaged meals, salad and a container of kimchi jjigae hidden in the back. He did not touch it, fearing a certain someone would cut off his hands if he did (no matter how delicious he knew it was).

He stuck to a cup of earl grey, sitting at the dining table with his laptop in front of him. From his seat, he could hear footsteps in the other room, the sound of dangling keys. He watched the entryway into the dining room, seeing a black-haired, annoyed mess come into view. 

Jack doesn’t even look at him as he drops his keys into the glass bowl. George watches him march up the stairs like a tempered child. 

After a short shower, George tip-toed into the bedroom. His bags were already unpacked and neatly stored away. Jack was curled up in the sheets, having stripped down to his t-shirt and briefs. Sunlight shining through glass panes, shadows plastered on the back wall. 

George climbed into bed next to Jack. 

“Hello.” George tried, watching Jack turn his back and face the wall. He sighed, using an arm to pull his husband closer. 

“I’m not speaking to you.” Jack exasperatedly said, half muffled by the pillow. George inched closer to kiss the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry. I am.” Quiet, passive anger was the worst coming from Jack. “I should have come home.”

“Yes, you should have.” 

“They asked me to come in, I am sorry. I will tell them no next time. I promise.” 

“G, a three day trip to your parents turned into a nine day work week. It’s summer break.” 

“I know, I’m sorry.” George runs his fingers through Jack’s hair, watching the man turn to face him. “I want to make it up to you.” 

“How?” George already has his hand pressed against his husband’s stomach before Jack can say anything else. “Oh god,” Jack’s white t-shirt is loose on his torso; the fabric bunched up, leaving pale skin uncovered. “G-” 

“I’m sorry love, I am.” George kisses his forehead, watching Jack visibly soften at the gesture.

“I know, but still. I was home sat doing nothing, my mother came and I was so out of my mind she thought I was going mad. At least, she wasn’t far from the truth, I felt like it too.”

“You have permission to kick me out of the house if I fuck up again.” George offers, hands sliding up Jack’s chest.

“So, your plan was to come and cuddle up to me and beg for forgiveness?” Jack scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Well..._not exactly cuddling. _” 

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Fuck off.” Jack tries to roll away from George, but is unsurprisingly held in place. “Let go of me, you twat.”

“Isn’t that a bit harsh, babe?” The older gives him an unimpressed look. “Please, don’t hate me.” George smiles like a child trying to get himself out of trouble.

Jack kisses him, legs tangled under the sheets. Tired limbs, showers of gold and earth bound kisses are what keep George grounded. Clothes are eventually found irrelevant, and are then discarded. (More plainly put as, Jack became increasingly more annoyed with George’s clothes being in the way of what he wanted to touch.)

He has the feeling that Jack has some sort of revenge plot.

He’s right.

When George is panting against his pillow, an arm stretched out, holding onto the headboard for leverage, he understands what Jack has planned for him. His husband has a palm pressed against the small of his back, keeping him flush against the bed. Another hand is over George’s, over the one gripping the headboard. 

Jack’s equally a breathy mess, except he knows what he’s doing. The younger’s ass pressed up against Jack’s groin. Sweet friction would be a world better if it wasn’t so frustrating. George’s patience has long worn thin, the man trying to move his hips, only for Jack to keep him where he is.

He whines, prompting a response from Jack.

“_Bit harsh_, babe?” Jack presses a finger in, the slide a little easy from already wet fingers. He watches George’s hold loosen, hand almost falling from place. Jack’s hand had been there, just in case, to keep him steady.

You see, George is uncharacteristically loud in bed. When he doesn’t have a pillow to muffle the sounds, he has to settle on a distraction. More often than not, that distraction is sucking on Jack’s fingers to keep quiet. 

However, saliva isn’t always the best lubricant, so it’s best Jack keeps a bottle in the bedside drawer. He reaches for it, not ever willing to subject George to pain. (Not that it looked like his husband was, but precautions ought to be taken.) The slide’s a little bit easier, a little bit warmer. George is searingly tight around his finger. He hears the younger let out something close to a sob.

Jack realizes his patience might be fading as well.

“_Jack-_” He leaves a kiss against the broad plane of George’s back, hearing his husband unravel with every move of his hand. Jack is reminded for the millionth time how much George trusts him. Reminded of how much he likes seeing George happy and wanting. Reminded of how much Jack likes to hear him moan, whimper and cry when George doesn’t know how else to convey how good he’s feeling. 

Jack gently moves him onto his back, settled between his thighs. George is gazing up at the ceiling, face a little red. He can’t look down, cause he’s done that before and ended up more of a moaning mess that he already is. Something about _ watching _ makes him feel that much more of a whore. He hates that he likes it, he hates that it affects him so much. 

He guesses Jack fucking him and seeing Jack fuck him are closely related but register as two seperate things in his brain. So, when Jack’s feeling spiteful, he’ll ask George to look at him. 

He’s feeling spiteful today.

“G,” Jack starts. “Look at me, G.” George listens, leaning up on his elbows. All he sees is a very debauched, very amused and focused looking Jack. George unconsciously reacts by clenching down on Jack’s fingers and really, Jack gets the message. 

“Just end me, already.” George lets out, falling back against the bed. Jack laughs, kissing the inside of the younger’s thigh. He fucks in slowly, effectively turning George to jelly. Jack’s not going to lie, the feeling of George sliding down on his cock is a hard one to not lose himself to. Every thrust makes Jack a little more inclined to just fuck the younger silly, but he’s aware that his husband might actually faint. (So, he asks first.)

“Can I go a little faster, baby?” George’s breath hitches, as if the air was punched out of his lungs.

“_Please._” Jack doesn’t need to be told twice.

George loses track of reality for a few moments, and he’s not sure if it lasts for a few minutes or a few seconds. All he registers is Jack over him, his body reacting to every touch or kiss he receives and the gold light sifting into the room. 

Jack’s presses a thumb against his jaw, the touch so gentle it breaks George out of whatever trance he’s in. He breathes heavily, basking in whatever feeling he’s experiencing. Jack kisses him again, smiling.

♧

Later, when Jack’s resting his head on George’s chest and they’re both too tired to move, it occurs to him how lucky he is. He’s found someone who knows him as well as he knows himself and every mistake is just a small part of the learning process. They have their traditional two-story house, made of grey stone and wide windows. They have their annoying kettle and their beautiful summers. And their wildflowers.

One day they’ll have kids that run up and down the stairs, a dog that they’ll grow to love and more family photos hanging on the walls. For now, they’ll make do. 

George is absolutely certain about one thing.

Hendrie House had become his home, in every sense of the word.

**Author's Note:**

> Before anything else, I want to say I hope you have enjoyed reading. I want to express my gratitude to Gertika for being such a good friend to me. Safe to say, without _Girl_ by Destiny's Child, _Affection_ by JMSN, and several of Gabrielle Aplin's songs, this story would not have been written. I wanted to share a poem I found in this anthology _The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart_. It helped me write this, and somehow I feel like it's very fitting.
> 
> _  
** PITCHER **  
_  
_His art is eccentricity, his aim  
How not hit the mark he seems to aim at,_
> 
> _His passion how to avoid the obvious,  
His technique how to vary the avoidance._
> 
> _The others throw to be comprehended. He  
Throws to be a moment misunderstood._
> 
> _Yet not too much. Not errant, arrant, wild,  
But every seeming aberration willed._
> 
> _Not to, yet still, still to communicate  
Making the batter to understand too late.  
_  
\- Robert Francis
> 
> Thank you for reading. You can yell at me at carlando09 on tumblr. It's also the first race week of the year, so I hope that you all have a blessed week!


End file.
